Waiting for Papa Bear
by Sgt. Moffitt
Summary: When you don't know what the next hour will bring...Written for the 2015 Short Story Speedwriting Challenge.


_A/N: I don't own Hogan's Heroes and I don't get paid for this; it is truly a labor of love._

 _A missing scene from "How to Catch a Papa Bear"._

* * *

Corporal Peter Newkirk tried to get hold of himself. He needed to have a nice quiet think about the situation, and now was not the time to panic. It did no good to worry about Myra, but even so, all he could think about was her safety. What were those Gestapo monsters doing to her? A delicate young bird like that, fragile almost, with eyes so blue a bloke could get lost in them...

She had been so frightened, and Peter had never felt so helpless. He had tried to reassure her, right enough, during the brief time they had been left alone in the cell, but she had not been consoled. And the next thing he knew, the cell door had been flung open and Myra had been dragged away.

Peter paced the cell for a few moments, then dropped back down to the hard and narrow bunk. Myra was gone, and for all he knew, he too might be dragged out any moment. He sighed. At least they had had those few minutes together.

Then he lifted his head, a puzzled expression on his face. Aye, that was the question. Why _had_ they been left together? He had joked with Myra about coeducational gaol cells, but the significance had been lost on him at the time. Would the Gestapo really have had the courtesy to put two underground agents in the same cell?

 _Not bloody likely!_

So had the goons thought the two of them might share information when no one was there to overhear? And if that were the case, had there actually been someone secretly listening in to their conversation? Was this cell bugged?

Peter jumped to his feet and went swiftly to the cell door. He peered through the opening to check the corridor outside, and listened intently for a few moments. Satisfied that no guard was lurking just outside, he methodically went over every surface of his prison. He searched the shelf above the sink and checked the pipes underneath. He poked and prodded every inch of the bunk and its pathetic excuse for a mattress. He turned the little table over and felt along the edges. Finally he climbed on the table to reach the overhead light and examined it carefully.

Nothing. With a sigh of relief Peter sank back down on the bunk. No-one had been listening in after all. But that still left the question: Why _had_ he and Myra been left together?

The obvious answer caused a cold sweat to break out on his brow. The bird was one of them—she _had_ to be! Gestapo! And he, Peter bloody Newkirk, survivor of both the Gretel disaster and the near-disaster of that other Myra and her chum Hegel, had fallen once again for a pretty girl with blue eyes and golden hair.

 _Bloody hell! What did you say to her?_

He frantically searched his memory of those few minutes. He had been so concerned with reassuring her, and at the same time had been desperately trying to hide his own fear...

He'd said something about the guv'nor coming to rescue them. Had he identified Colonel Hogan by name? No, no, he was sure he had not. He had put his arm around her, and felt her tremble. What else had he said?

 _Oh, God._

Newkirk put his head in his hands. He had actually mentioned the radio frequency he and the Colonel had arranged for contact if needed! And now Myra knew it, and her jolly friends here knew it as well; no doubt Wilhelm, the bloke who had supposedly escaped the Gestapo raid, was among them.

 _Was the Colonel going to be led into a trap?_

Peter's heart thudded so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest, and for a moment he couldn't catch his breath. The prospect of his own imminent peril paled in comparison to the thought of Colonel Hogan and the others falling prey to the monsters.

But then a calming thought came to him: _the security code._ He hadn't told the bird about the security code! If they tried to contact the guv'nor without it, the Colonel would be instantly on his guard and not trust whatever message they tried to trick him with.

The overwhelming relief Peter felt at this realization made him feel weak, and he almost laughed aloud. He had not betrayed his friends, and they would be safe. They might even be able to rescue him!

* * *

Forty-eight hours later Peter's hope of rescue, faint enough to begin with, had dwindled to nothing. The four walls of his cell were closing in on him and he despaired of ever seeing daylight again. The only positive thing about his situation was the fact that he hadn't been taken away for interrogation.

Not yet, anyway.

He got to his feet and paced the cell once more, occupied with his thoughts. Strange, the things that wandered through a bloke's mind at a time like this.

 _Being in a place like this gets your priorities straight, and no mistake. I reckon you never know how important something is until you have to face the fact that you might lose it forever. And it's not the big things either, is it?_

 _It's the simple things in life you treasure. A game of darts of an evening at the Anchor & Hope, with a pint or two of bitter at hand. Toddling by St. Dunstan's on a summer's day with Rita on your arm. Fish and chips, when you had the dosh to get it. Mavis's smile when you brought her flowers on her birthday. The first ciggy of the day._

Peter sighed. The guards had brought him food—if you could call it that—but no cigarettes. He pushed aside the gnawing need for nicotine and returned to his thoughts.

Even during the past few years as a POW in Stalag 13, deep in the heart of bloody Germany, there had been a few things to treasure.

 _Putting one over on the guards, with them never the wiser. Eating Louis' strudel, if you could get in ahead of Schultzie of course. (Blimey, even Louis' bloody fish stew would be good right now!) Having a laugh with Kinch and Andrew over a friendly game of cards. Watching the guv'nor's face as he comes up with a new idea._

 _What if you never see them again, or hear their voices? Cor, what you wouldn't give to hear Andrew's voice right now, eh?_

Peter hadn't entirely given up hope, not yet, but things looked very dark indeed. And at that very moment, footsteps approached and he could hear voices in the corridor. The voices became louder, but he couldn't quite make them out. Then he heard it: Andrew was calling to him!

"Newkirk? Hey, Newkirk!"

It was such a simple thing...the sound of a friendly voice speaking his name. And Peter had never heard anything so beautiful in all his life.


End file.
